


Intimacy

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [13]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 21:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5800714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looked at me keenly, then smiled a bit shyly as he nodded and dropped the cards to the table and I locked the door.</p>
<p>Dr Watson’s dispatch box contains some pieces that have clearly been read more than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intimacy

We had had far too much to drink. But it had been a celebration and even though Mrs Hudson had had to put poor Lestrade into a cab with firm instructions (and some extra silver to assure their being carried out) on getting him home—actually _in_ his home, she meant—she had smiled affectionately at all of us. We were not loud or boisterous or destructive; in fact, Sherlock in particular was actually better behaved than usual. He had played a bit, but kept making mistakes, and finally, with a laugh and a shrug, gave it up. That was how I knew that he had imbibed quite a bit, and we were not even that far into our evening.  
  
Mrs Hudson had brought up something for us to nibble on and we happily partook.   
  
“The thing about safe-crackers in general is they’re too cocky,” Lestrade explained, gesticulating with his cheese and bread. “It’s a tricky trade, and they get all puffed up and think they’re better than any other… erm… criminal…” His voice petered out in some confusion. “I’m not saying that being a criminal is a proper trade, but now that I think about it…” He stopped speaking and took a large bite of the good, crusty bread in his hand.  
  
“Oh, it is most certainly a trade,” Sherlock chimed in, taking up an apple. “Genuinely. There are masters and journeymen and even apprentice safe-crackers. It’s not learned overnight, you know—not like pickpocketing. That’s so simple even a child could do it.”  
  
“Children _do_ do it,” I pointed out. Of the three of us, I was probably the soberest at that point—mainly from having more practise than perhaps I admitted to in my published work. I was not overly concerned about Lestrade—he was no stranger to a bottle—but I was keeping an eye on Sherlock. If he was not careful, overindulgence would turn to misery (for both of us) in the blink of an eye. “Eat your apple,” I admonished. “You need some food in you.”  
  
“You sound like my brother,” he grumbled, taking a bite and then smiling at me, his lovely lips glistening with the juice.  
  
“You need a brother to look after you,” Lestrade pointed out. “You are a mad man, you know.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed innocently, and both Lestrade and I ended up breathless and wiping our eyes as he stared at us, perplexed; Sherlock could be so very amusing when he had not the slightest idea that what he was doing or saying was so delightfully naïve.  
  
After our light repast, I suggested a game of écarté—for myself and Lestrade. Sherlock did not care for cards, but he quickly and nimbly counted out the lower cards to create a piquet deck for us. We had cleared the dining table for our pastime and laid a clean cloth, and he sat with us at it and enjoyed observing us.  
  
He also, at one point, began to create a house with those cards that he had removed from the deck. Lestrade looked at it and then at me, and I just shook my head. There was no way of knowing what went on in his brilliant mind.  
  
Finally, Lestrade admitted to exhaustion. He thanked us heartily for our hospitality (and the small matter of finding him the Bayswater Burglar) and headed rather unsteadily down the stairs and into Mrs Hudson’s capable management.  
  
I shut the door separating us from the stairs with a satisfying click and leaned back against it. Sherlock was gathering up the cards. I watched in fascination as he skilfully shuffled the entire pack back together.   
  
“Do you know what I have been thinking about all evening?” I enquired.  
  
He looked at me keenly, then smiled a bit shyly as he nodded and dropped the cards to the table and I locked the door.  
  
*  
  
In no time at all we were bare—in my bed, for once. We were both laughing and kissing and caressing each other eagerly.  
  
“John?” he murmured against my ear. His hands were—everywhere, to be honest.  
  
“Yes, my darling? I focused on kissing a new line of bruises on his upper arm—the safe-cracker had turned out to have quite a bit of fight in him.  
  
“I want…”  
  
“What do you want, my darling?” I whispered against his temple.  
  
“I wish to… kiss you,” he admitted.  
  
“I am no genius, but I am fairly certain that you are already doing so,” I pointed out (rather cleverly I thought) (as I said, we had been drinking).  
  
“No. I mean I wish to… _kiss_ you,” and his brilliant eyes dipped down my body to my—oh. I suddenly understood what he wished to do.  
  
We had not engaged in that particular act since that first time, but it had not been a long time past, and the memory of how glorious he had made me feel sometimes took me quite by surprise at the most inappropriate moments. My organ—my entire body—reacted quite favourably to this expression of his desire. “Do you?” I managed, trying to sound calm even though I felt anything but.  
  
He nodded earnestly. “Oh, yes. Please. I have been wishing to—I wish to make you feel all lovely and not able to finish your sentences.” He smiled at me so sweetly I could have wept—if I was not quite so eager for his mouth to do something quite different from smiling. “Please,” he begged.  
  
I am not even certain if I actually said “yes” aloud or I simply rolled obediently onto my back. I do know that I did say just one other word aloud.  
  
“Please,” I echoed.  
  
*  
  
As he had done the first time, he somehow folded his body between my legs, and then, with one hand laid delicately on each thigh, he leaned over me and took a deep breath. “You smell so lovely, John,” he murmured, tipping his head back up for a second. Then, before he bent his head over me again, he said one last word, and at it a groan of pure, lewd pleasure escaped my lips—  
  
as I complied with his request to _watch_.  
  
*  
  
How do I put it into words?  
  
I first felt his long, sensitive fingers wrap around my prick. I was already so very stiff and stimulated that I very nearly lost my resolve right then, but my brilliant man knew what to do and his grasp around me tightened.  
  
“No,” he admonished sweetly; and his breath on my hot prick made me shudder.  
  
He moved his hand up and down my shaft slowly; thoughtfully. He changed the pressure of his fingers so he could move it freely but still kept me quite firmly held.  
  
“Now?” he whispered, his lips brushing against the strained skin.  
  
“Oh, God, yes,” I managed.  
  
“Now,” he repeated. “Are you watching?”  
  
Oh, God. Was I watching? I could not have broken my gaze if he had turned into the sun and his dazzling light threatened to burn my eyes out of my head.  
  
His wicked tongue crept out of his mouth and he coyly licked first his upper and then his lower lip. I shuddered.  
  
He tightened his grip and the smile that graced his lips was the most wicked, lascivious thing I have ever seen. And then that wicked, lovely tongue extended further  
  
And he  
  
 _licked_  
  
And I know that I was moving my hips and the smile did not fade entirely even as he slid his mouth around me and I groaned and thrust myself up to meet that tongue. During all this his eyes—shining twin universes containing a million stars—had never left my face. But now—finally—he shut his glorious eyes and bent his head so I could see nothing but the dark curls and he took me entirely into his mouth—  
  
I lost track of all time; of all sensation or awareness of anything else but the two of us—of my prick and his mouth  
  
There was nothing quite like it. I have seen references to the more intimate areas of our bodies—by those I mean the mouth and that particular part that only women have—as velvet, but that strikes me as inaccurate and misleading. Velvet is plush and textured.  
  
This was—  
  
There is nothing else like it.  
  
It is soft and yielding and firm all at the same time. It is hot and wet. It is smooth. It is the finest satin and the best brandy and the mildest of summer nights. It is the most beautiful music that you have ever heard—it sings and thrums through every blood vessel until the angels weep for it.  
  
And then he began to gently suck—  
  
and I pitied the angels because they did not have this.  
  
*  
  
I do know that Sherlock is uncannily observant. Even things of which he has no personal knowledge seem to leap out at him. Granted, sometimes he chooses to ignore this information—which is perhaps why witnesses he has been questioning tend to burst into tears—but there are times when he absorbs the information and instantaneously has mastery of it. This apparently is the category into which his incredible, tantalizing ability with his mouth and hand fall.  
  
The coordination of the two—some of that was pure logistics. If he was not deft in the timing of his motions, I realised (long after the fact; during the act I was fortunate just to continue breathing) he would and sometimes did move his hand up as he moved his mouth down… once he was so energetic about this that he actually split his own lip, a fact we did not discover until afterwards.  
  
But most of the time it was the coordination of a musician—an intimate partnership between body and soul—and it was glorious. This time—only the second time he had done this—he faltered a few times, but somehow instinctively corrected himself. A shift of angle; a different pressure of his fingers. A gloriously wet mouth and the softest of lips and a gentle suction and—  
  
“Sherlock,” I managed to gasp as my hand found his curls and tugged lightly.  
  
“Mmmm?” was all he could manage, so intent was he on my pleasure.  
  
“I… am near to…” I faltered as I felt the glorious tightening of my balls and then any thought of warning him went clean out of my head and all I could think about was the impending bit of heaven I was about to experience—a bit of heaven that for all of the hands that had been on my prick, including his, was the highest of high and I believe that my grip on his curls tightened in sympathy  
  
I was drowning in euphoria  
  
Floating—first up, up, up and then—so gently—down  
  
I did not feel it when I landed.  
  
*  
  
The next moment of which I was cognizant is of being back in the bed with my darling, a smile on my face and his thin frame stretched out alongside mine. During my lovely flight to the clouds he had apparently unfolded himself from between my legs (which were somewhat numb, I realised) and stretched himself along me. He was on his side with his head resting in the crook of his elbow on the pillow, and he was smiling the most beautiful, delighted smile I have ever seen on his angelic features.  
  
“Uhhhn,” I said—not my most brilliant utterance, but he seemed to get the gist of it. He shifted and propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at me gently.  
  
“You are the most delicious thing I have ever tasted, John,” he murmured, and his words sent a shock through my already-overstimulated system. I found myself unable to respond, my mouth lax and slightly open.  
  
He leaned over me, his face close to mine.  
  
He pressed the kiss to my lips carefully, slipping his tongue in almost tentatively, and I realised why. I could taste _myself_ on that glorious thing, and instead of being horrified or disgusted, it tasted to me like the most delightful of delicacies and I met his tongue with mine and licked into that wonderful, talented mouth and we kissed and we kissed until…  
  
Just until.  
  
[A brief note from Sherlock: _I believe I need to read this again—in bed with you._  
  
 _I do love you._ ]  
  



End file.
